


Angrboða

by Jenova (Kat_o_nine_Tails)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All Loki's fault, Anal Sex, Body Dysphoria, But he doesn't think so, Dubious Consent, Evil Loki, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Transgender Clint, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_o_nine_Tails/pseuds/Jenova
Summary: Angrboða; (Old Norse: Sorrow Bringer), the wife of Loki, who bore him monstrous children that would bring about the Ragnarok.Clint never picked up a book on Norse mythology, but even if he had Loki's wife would have been the last character he would relate to.But he's not given much of a choice.





	Angrboða

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be frank: this is disturbing even to me. I'd been doing research on Angrboða for my other story when I saw the Avengers playing on TV. As I was watching Clint and Loki interact this thing got into my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it down.
> 
> Guys, heed the warnings. This is not a nice story, and there are a lot of things going wrong left right and center. Loki literally treats Clint like a subordinate at best and a brood mare at worst in the beginning, and at one point Clint goes through half the female population of New York trying to deal with the changes done to his body. That part's not graphic, but still, read the tags.  
> Clint also doesn't have a family in this one, because I couldn't find a way to include them and still get to the point I wanted with the story.
> 
> There is also the tagging issue: I only put Dub-con and not Non-con because Clint and Loki don't have sex while he's under mind control, and when they (almost) do it's perfectly consensual and enthusiastic for the simple reason Clint has no idea it's Loki in disguise, and if he did it would have been straight-up rape. I'm not actually sure how that should be tagged and if anyone does please message me so I can put proper warnings in.

_You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

Loki gritted his teeth and forced the echo of the Other's voice out of his mind. Now was not the time to be thinking about him or Thanos.

"You okay Boss?" Barton's voice made him raise his head from the plans spread on the table he wasn't really seeing. The archer's cyan blue eyes were worried, something that still startled Loki now and again. He had to remind himself that while Barton's feelings were aimed towards him they weren't really for him.

That was the strange thing about the staff. It couldn't create something out of nothing, only reshape and manipulate what was already there. The respect, care and regard Clint was showing Loki were reserved for someone else, merely steered in his direction as the holder of the scepter, sprinkled liberally with worship dug up from whatever part of Barton's memory in which such a thing existed. Nevertheless, it was odd to realize he hadn't been on the receiving end of such an expression in a long time.

"Boss?"

"I'm fine."

"Pardon me for saying so, but you don't look fine. Something on your mind?"

Loki looked at him in slight disbelief. Was he honestly attempting what he thought he was? "Lots of things, none of which concern you."

"Your wellbeing kinda' is my concern." Barton was persistent. "You know you can talk to me, right? I'm a spy, I know how to keep a secret."

By the Void, _he was._ He was trying to have a heart-to-heart with him. Loki didn't know whether to laugh at him or smite him where he stood. He had already extracted from Barton everything he needed to know about SHIELD, the Avengers Initiative, Fury and _Natasha._ It was becoming quite clear that it was Barton's feelings towards the redhead that the staff was manipulating towards Loki.

Loki honestly couldn't help it. He laughed. He got himself back under control within seconds but it was enough to make Barton's mouth twitch at the corners as well. Despite himself Loki actually felt more relaxed after Barton's little show of initiative. Might as well reward him.

"If you must know, I had been contemplating further courses of action." He told Barton. "Once our dealings with the Chitauri are done Midgard will be under my rule. But there is the ever-present dilemma: to stop here, at a prime vacationing spot even the Allfather favored some centuries ago, or to go further beyond the primitive backwater? Midgard is not much, but I admit it had a certain… rustic charm."

There was also the sizeable bonus of snatching away a realm where Thor's little mortal maiden dwelled. Oh, how the god of thunder would rage. Loki could hold her in his court, more a thrall than a councilwoman, at least until she proved she was of any real value. And unless Thor wanted to wage another war and bring more ruin to Midgard he would have to play nice, especially if Loki's plans were carried out properly. If the Allfather wanted to send his son to Midgard without the Bifrost, the means to do so would leave him powerless to interfere with Loki's agenda.

Thor and the protectors of Midgard listed in something Barton called 'The Avengers Initiative' would battle the Chitauri and annihilate each other. Thor would live, of course, but would be severely weakened. A rather perfect prisoner of war. By the time the Bifrost was repaired Loki would have brought his new realm up to his standards. There were powerful relics other than the Tesseract that could be used for such means, and the mortals had already started harnessing its energy to make weapons.

It was really too bad they were on such a strict schedule. If they had time Loki would have taken care to study their technologies and find means to incorporate magical aspects into it. Midgardians truly made up their shortcomings in rather ingenious ways sometimes. When they had lost the capabilities for scrying they made something called 'Facebook', a digital library where everything there was to know about a person existed. When they lost the means to make magical weapons they found ways around it in a manner that revealed even more new inventions.

Humans had great potential, but it was severely limited by their short lifespans. Loki could fix that, of course, at least to humans that had proven valuable, such as Hawkeye. And speaking of the archer, he was still watching him.

"Well simple can be good too." He took Loki's attention as his cue to answer. "You start simple and build it up the way you want, without other people's shit in the way."

"Hmm." He and Barton were like-minded it seemed. "Would you care to provide an example?"

The archer paused, adopting a thoughtful look for a minute. Loki let him formulate his thoughts, not rushing him.

"I always wanted to buy a farm, when and if I retire." Barton finally said. "Somewhere quiet, like the place I grew up. Build a house in the middle of nowhere, plant a corn field and set up an archery range."

"Rustic indeed."

"Yeah, well, you do you. Myself, I'm a man of simple tastes at heart." Barton shrugged, concluding that was enough of his input.

'You do you', huh? The archer's wording had been odd but Loki understood its meaning nonetheless. Indeed, starting simple might be the key. As much as Loki knew he was capable of ruling Asgard, gaining experience never hurt. He could remake Midgard in his image, then see if he even wanted to include Asgard in his rule. Thanos probably wouldn't stick to their deal for very long and it would be better to have one prosperous kingdom than two at war when he came through this part of the Yggdrasil again.

Of course, then another question rose up: what to do once he had it? If he decided to settle for just Midgard what to do with it then? Bring it up to his standard, certainly, but _what then_? What did kings do once they won the war and their duties consisted of mostly sitting on the throne and organizing things? What did Odin do?

_He fathered a son and stole a boy to be his playmate, in the process forgetting to tell them they are not related._

Well, certain things excluded, the idea did have some merit. He did sometimes imagine what form his legacy would take, and it was a ruler's duty to ensure his dynasty prevailed. And he did have to admit, creatures of his flesh and blood that looked at him with the same adoration in their eyes as he remembered feeling as a child when he looked at his not-brother and his fake parents… He liked that thought more than he thought he would.

Now the problem of getting someone to bare said children for him.

Unwittingly, his eyes strayed to Hawkeye. He had apparently gotten the hint that Loki didn't need his input on his own thoughts anymore and went back to planning. Loki shook his head slightly. The idea was ridiculous but it had its merit. Barton was capable, skilled, trained, clearly loyal and his attempts to take care of Loki indicated he would be a good parent as well. It was also good practice to take a local bride when setting up a new reign. The only problems were his mortal lifespan and the permanency of human gender.

The first could admittedly be easily fixed. Iđunn really didn't watch her orchard as well as she perhaps should. But the latter would be trickier as human males weren't really built with readjustments in mind. Loki hummed as he observed the archer's movements, the veins in his arms and the flex of his buttocks as he walked back and forth from the blueprints and plans and something he called a laptop.

The more he thought about it the better the idea seemed to get, and the list of reasons why this was such a bad idea in the first place was rapidly diminishing. Finally Loki got up and came to stand behind Barton. The marksman turned his head backwards for a second but upon ascertaining it was just his Boss he turned back to work. But when he made to walk toward the other end of the table Loki grabbed him by the hips, stopping his movements.

"Boss?" Barton turned back inquiringly.

"Shush. Be still." Loki ordered and Hawkeye obeyed. He stayed relaxed and unconcerned as Loki unbuckled his pants from behind and ran his hands over his belly, digging his fingers in at seemingly random places.

Loki was quite satisfied with what he found. His abdominal cavity was spacious enough to fit an unborn babe, though perhaps a little short on fat reserves. He moved his hands downwards to palpitate his hipbones. A little narrower than he would have preferred, but adequately wide, especially for a male. Next he slid his hands backwards, under his buttocks to look for the pubic arch, estimating the angle and mentally mapping the width of his pelvic inlet. Whether he liked it or not, if it wasn't wide enough he would have to give up on Barton in this matter because even he wasn't willing to break his hips to make him accommodate a child.

A bit sourly Loki thought how much easier this would be if humans were as receptive to transformative magics as almost every other species in the nine realms. But at some point in the past millennium they had lost nearly all of their magical capacity, to the point magic literally passed through them and they didn't even notice. Even if Loki tried to transform Barton into a shape more suited to his needs there was no guarantee it would work at all, much less properly.

Fortunately, it seemed it wouldn't be necessary. Loki had lain with women who had smaller hips than Barton and when he had seen them later, married and bred they had no problems delivering their offspring into the world. Of course, smaller didn’t also mean narrower, but that could be fixed with minimal complications.

"You gonna give me a prostate exam while you're back there?" Barton's tone was teasing with just a hint of lewd suggestion. Loki didn't have to understand the terminology to get his intent. As encouraging as that sounded Loki couldn't indulge himself quite yet. He had an idea, an idea he had to start on soon if he wanted all events he had planned for to align to his liking.

"Perhaps later." He said mildly as he slid his fingers out of Barton's pants with one final caress. "Are you able to handle things by yourselves until sundown?"

Barton glanced at his time bracelet. "About eight hours? Sure, I have a few mercenaries to round up and Selvig is still gazing lovingly at the cube. If you take a phone with you I can ping you the moment he has a list of thing we need."

"No need." Loki twirled the staff around and went to leave. "I will be back then. I trust you have things well in hand."

"Will do Boss!" Barton called after him but Loki was already out the door. He shrugged and returned to planning.

"Are you two done?" Selvig appeared five minutes later. "The cube has given me the knowledge of what I need. I wrote it down and came to find our Lord but you two were… preoccupied."

"Don't worry, it was all PG rated. I didn't even get my hands dirty." To be perfectly honest it didn't even feel sexual. When he felt his belt unbuckling Clint assumed Loki wanted him to service his Lord. Honestly, Clint would have been all for that because, well, it was _Loki,_ but his touch had felt purely analytical, even when his fingers slid in between his buttcheeks and past his entrance to probe at the soft flesh behind his balls. The prostate exam quip had been a joke, but that was just about the only thing he _hadn't_ examined. It even felt less uncomfortable than when it was his actual doctor doing it. Loki hadn't been aroused so it wasn't a kink either, and Clint wasn't sure what the point of it all was, but it wasn't his place to question orders. If the Boss wanted to tell him, he would. Clint trusted him.

"If the table is clean…" He deposited his scrap of paper on the metal surface. Clint picked it up and read it. Most of the stuff listed SHIELD already had lying around, not even that well protected. "That all you need?"

"Not even close." Selvig shook his head slightly in bemusement. "But I figured you might want to start on it anyway, if our Lord wishes to keep to schedule. I have been given instructions piece by piece. The cube is… remarkable."

"Of course." Clint nodded before Selvig could begin another serenade about the cube. Clint was a man or action, not words. Speaking of… "Boss said he needed to go and get something. He didn't take a phone so give me a ring when he comes back, I'm gonna get started on that list of yours."

"Where did our Lord go?"

"Didn't ask." Clint shrugged. "But if it's important enough to actually go and get it himself you're gonna want to be here when he gets it back."

"Of course, of course." Selvig nodded enthusiastically. Scientists. Deep down they were all the same.

As Selvig shuffled off back to his little makeshift lab Clint marked the places he would need to go to in order to get Selvig his stuff. His thoughts shifted to his Boss once again, wondering what he was planning. Whatever it was Clint would help in whatever capacity he was able, and he had to admit to himself he was curious. But he was also a sniper, with patience worn into his very bones from many stakeouts. The Boss would tell him what to do once he needed to do it.

He just had to obey the Boss and everything would be alright. Simple as that.

And at heart, Clint was a man of simple tastes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

True to his word Loki returned to their makeshift base a little after sundown. Erik noticed he looked a bit… rumpled, as if he'd exerted a great deal of effort to accomplish whatever it was he went to do. He also had a black velvet pouch with him, which Erik assumed contained things to help them in their mission.

"Is that the stuff I asked for?" He gestured to the pouch. It was big enough for all the processor chips he needed, though he had assumed Hawkeye would be the one to go get them.

"Not quite." Loki hooked it to his belt, under his jacket. "Where is Barton?"

"Still not back." Probably the archer's equipment then, for when they'd need to take down the Hellicarrier. He still wasn't sure how they were planning to do that, but no matter. Not his division. "I made a list of things I'm going to need, so he went to get them. It's… still not complete, I'm getting information in bits and pieces, but I've definitely made progress. We should be ready for testing in a day or two."

"Good." His Lord nodded. "Summon Barton with your communication device and have him return. I have need of him."

"Of course my Lord." Erik pulled out his phone and opened the 'Hawkeye' contact.

_'You need to come back. Lord Loki is asking for you.'_

_'B ther in 1h',_ was the shorthand reply. Erik looked up to tell the god it was done but Loki was nowhere in sight. He hadn't even seen him move, much less leave the room.

Yet another reason the Cube _chose_ him as their master. Erik couldn't be more proud to serve one as great as he.

Loki went to his 'office', the room where he and Barton made their plans. He opened the pouch and carefully took out what looked like a shiny yellow apple, an amber stone and several pomegranate seeds, that had given him such trouble to acquire even with the staff's power.

They were the Apple of Immortality, the Healing Stone and the Seeds of Life.

Perhaps his timing wasn't optimal, but what he intended to do would take time, and if he wanted it done by the time he had a firm grasp on this realm he had to start now. With the Healing Stone's power Barton would still be able to carry out his duties in a matter of hours after the act, and the effects would likely take months, maybe years, to even start showing. By then his services would not be needed nearly as much.

Better start now.

Hawkeye made it back ten minutes earlier than predicted. He found Loki in the makeshift office waiting for him, twirling one of his throwing knives between his fingers with the bored grace only he could achieve.

"What d'you need me for Boss?"

His Master looked at him assessingly and gave a small smile that sent shivers down Clint's spine. He made a 'come hither' gesture and gave a smile that sent shivers down Clint's spine.

"Drop your trousers." Loki ordered. "And spread your legs."

Thinking his Master decided to take him up on his offer Clint smirked and did just that. He lowered his pants and briefs down to his ankles and leaned back against the table, his hands already working the rest of his suit off.

"That is fine." Loki stopped him just as he was pulling off his undervest. He still held the throwing knife in one had as a ball of flame erupted from his other palm. Clint couldn't help but stare. His Master carefully ran the blade through the fire before closing his fist and extinguishing it.

"Turn around and brace your hands on the table." Clint would never admit it, but the words made a slight sliver of worry curl up in his belly. While he would never doubt his Lord and Master it was a natural male reaction to be wary of sharp objects near his nether regions. At least that was what he told himself as he obeyed the order. One of Loki's arms curled around his waist, palm flat and fingers spread against his abdomen as he pressed his chest to Clint's back.

"Relax. It will not hurt for long." The words, though said in a soothing tone, didn't really set Clint at ease. Nevertheless, he spread his knees as wide as he could with his pants down and leaned forward a bit more. He had a feeling this was the reason for that afternoon's groping session, whatever _this_ was. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax.

"Good boy." Loki rubbed his belly in approval, and that actually relaxed Clint more than his words. "You need not fear, you will not be harmed, merely… augmented."

Before Clint could think about what that meant Loki's knife suddenly pierced him deeply in that place he had been scoping earlier, straight between his legs. He hissed in pain, wondering why the hell he needed another hole down there but then the knife _twisted._

Clint let out a soft 'ah' in pain and bent down to his elbows. He could feel the squelch of flesh and fresh blood as the knife was pulled out and he shook in pain, but then it took everything in his power not to pass out or scream as Loki's fingers were suddenly _pushing in._ Clint whimpered as quietly as he could but his Master evidently heard him.

"Shhh, just a moment more." Loki murmured into the back of his neck, gently rubbing Clint's quivering belly. Clint just struggled to breathe. He could feel the god's finger in there, pressed up to the knuckle, shooting flashes of pain with every shift. Clint barely had the presence of mind to wonder what was even the point of it all when suddenly the finger was gone, slowly pulled out. If he hadn't shifted all of his weight on the table he would have definitely fallen to the floor.

Clint had of course sustained far worse wound in battle but this was very different from combat, where there was enough adrenaline to tide him over until he was somewhere safe and the mission was over. And he was always doped on painkillers until he recovered. He had never been so casually butchered without even a Tylenol to ease his suffering.

Then something cold and round was pressed against the wound again. Clint was frankly on the verge of begging Loki to stop when he heard a crack like breaking crystal and was flooded with warm relief. He gasped, suddenly able to breathe again as the pain dissipated and disappeared completely.

"Shh," Loki soothed again. "Breathe. It's over. You've done wonderfully."

And in that moment Clint would have gone through all of that again just to hear his Master's praise. Something warm and wet was suddenly dragged up his thigh and it took Clint a moment to realize it was a washcloth. He stayed still and let Loki clean up all the blood. There was surprisingly little of it, not even enough to trickle down to his pants. No matter how painful it was Loki was careful not to cut anything important and it was over quick, at least.

Clint was wondering where the hell his Boss even _got_ a washcloth, much less a wet one, when those long fingers were back. The wound had closed and all that was left was sensitive flesh now, but it was still tender enough to be painful. Clint let out a hiss and clenched for a second before relaxing again.

"Hmm, seems you will need to rest before I can make use of you again." Loki patted one buttcheek and moved away. Clint turned around to see him wearing a satisfied little smirk. "You may dress yourself."

Clint did, refusing to be disappointed that there wasn't even sex in the end. If his Master wanted him like that, well, he would _get him_ like that. But if he didn't there wasn't much Clint could do about it. When he buckled his pants back up and straightened he felt a little twitch in between his legs, almost like that time he was stupid enough to have sex on a beach and gotten sand up every single orifice, but not quite. Had Master put something in him?

Before he could think about it further he was presented with a plump yellow apple. "Eat." Loki ordered. "It will help you regain strength."

Clint wasn't so sure how much a single apple would help but he took it gratefully nonetheless. Then he bit into it and he was _so glad_ he did because it was like a sweet, juicy orgasm in his mouth. He actually moaned a little, savoring every bite.

Loki chuckled as he watched him. "Get some rest. I will send someone to wake you up in the morn."

Clint nodded around a bite. He had a cot up in his perch so he could rest without having to balance on a beam like a gymnast. He could nap for an hour or two while still keeping an eye on things.

He scaled the wall without much problem, though his recent 'injury' made it a bit uncomfortable. He spread out on his belly with his chin on folded arms, watching his Master and Selvig discuss things. If he didn't shift his hips he couldn't even feel whatever it was Loki had done. He'd said something about augmenting him but at that point Clint wasn't really listening.

It didn't matter, Clint decided. He trusted the master, whatever his reasons for doing it. He wasn't given any orders regarding it so he concluded there was nothing to do about it. Master gave orders, Clint followed. Simple as that.

When he woke up next Selvig was calling him down. He said he needed Iridium to build his portal, and if the Boss wanted Iridium, Boss would get it.

"What do you need?"

"A distraction." He snapped his bow open. "And an eyeball."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint almost forgot about the impromptu surgery until much later, after Natasha's cognitive recalibration, after the battle of New York. After the whole shawarma thing and forming a new team. After losing Coulson. After… after.

He was sitting in a paper smock in SHIELD medical as the doctor on shift had asked just about everything under the sun. They were trying to figure out just what Loki had done to his brain, what made him so completely subservient to the would-be god, if there were any lingering effects and if he might act on them.

They were treating him like a time bomb when Clint wasn't sure he could trust himself. He had no idea how that blue stuff worked, only its effects. He had already made the mistake of describing how he felt about Loki and the whole mission to the SHIELD psychiatrist.

 _Like I had found my final purpose in life,_ he recounted bitterly, _like I could die doing what he wanted me to and I would die happy._

They wrote it down, to be evaluated at a later date. He was effectively benched, barring any Avengers business. Not that he would be needed very much. The fledgling team had not survived in the same room together without a common enemy to fight. Stark had offered them a place to stay but Clint couldn't exactly admit that the mere thought of being in proximity to other humans was making his skin itch, a wrench of irrational fear worming its way down his spine.

Even defeated and muzzled, Loki had looked at him and Clint had the feeling he was laughing. That he was telling him it wasn't over.

It was that irrational fear, that anxiety about the others' distrust that made him lie to the doctor.

"Were you ever deliberately harmed under his influence?" He had asked, not looking at Clint except suspiciously out the corner of his eye, as if he expected him to show signs of being back under Loki's control at any moment.

Clint was rather abruptly reminded of the feeling of Loki's dagger piercing his flesh, and even more horribly how he felt about the god's arm wrapped around his waist, calming him down.

He knew he should tell them what Loki had done. Get them to scan and x-ray every inch of him to find out the purpose behind it and if there _was_ something wrong they had the best surgeons on call. They would fix it.

But they would never trust him again.

"No." He answered. "No, he didn't harm me."

The doctor just wrote it down and continued questioning.

He was basically on desk duty, all alone in the complex. Phil was gone, Natasha was far too valuable not to be sent out and- And that was it. There wasn't really anyone else Clint could trust, much less anyone who trusted him. Every agent knew what he had gone through, how he had turned on SHIELD in a blink of an eye. Though they knew it was technically mind control you could never be too careful, right?

Clint lasted two weeks of signing paperwork and being whispered about before he stormed into Fury's office, in full uniform and ready to fight.

"Barton what the hell are you doing here? Don't you have forms to sign off on?"

"With all due respect, _sir,_ " Clint adopted his patented snipe-face, "I'm going to go mad if I see another form for disinfectant requisition. You might want to tell Agents Fitz and Simmons to get a bit more subtle if they want to keep their relationship under wraps, by the way. Give me a mission."

"You know I can't do that yet."

"What the fuck not?!" Clint just barely kept his voice at a socially acceptable level. "Every single hack that had ever gotten a signed check from SHIELD has poked and prodded everything there was to poke and prod in my brain! They found nothing! If I ever see Loki again I'm going to wring his Goddamn neck, not switch sides at the first opportunity! If I do go mad again you will have no one to blame but yourself!"

Thank the heavens that Fury's office had soundproofing because fuck socially acceptable level of decibels. The Director looked at him in that special way of his, the 'I don't have time to fucking babysit you' face. He stared at Clint for almost a minute before he pulled a folder out of fucking nowhere.

"Standard Mafia wipeout." He said as Clint opened the mission brief. "Cuba. Target info provided. You start immediately. You get in, shoot the people in the pictures and get on the plane back. Clear?"

"Crystal, Sir." Clint nodded and turned around without another word. Hill had looked at him a bit oddly as she signed off on transportation but he staunchly ignored it. Director Fury had obviously known Clint would come frothing at the mouth because this mission was so easy it would have usually been shafted off on a middle-ranked agent, maybe with one junior support and Clint had gotten it. A mission he would complete in three days tops but was written to last two weeks. Clint hadn't exactly gone in asking for vacation but he supposed it was Fury's way of telling him he really needed one.

Of course, it was just his luck that it turned out to be a human trafficking ring going far deeper than SHIELD intelligence department had suspected. If he hadn't been an idiot with a fucking chip on his shoulder he would have called for backup the exact second he found their real book of finances. Instead he got locked in a fucking shootout, at least twenty of them against one of him, when he finally caved and called it in.

"Hawkeye to base. I need backup. I repeat, I need backup."

"Base to Hawkeye." Hill's voice came over the line. "Status?"

"Everything's on fucking fire!" He growled and shot yet another piece of hired muscle. "Your info was shit! These are human traffickers and they got hostages. Five of them, all female, between ages of fifteen and twenty. Send whoever's nearest, and send them guns blazing!"

"Your location?"

"Eastern port, dock M, storage number 12!"

"Affirmative, backup will be there in 20."

"Make it 10!" He had to jump out of his hiding when one of the idiots had the brilliant idea to light a fuse on a barrel of oil and roll it towards him. He only just managed to jump behind a support beam that protected him from the blast adequately. When the blast died down he peeked from his cover and then immediately had to shoot yet another goon.

Of course, that's when the support beams started cracking. The while structure was going down and backup was still seven minutes away. He checked to make sure that the girls were already loaded on the boat then took a deep breath, took aim and fired. The arrow flew out the hole in the wall, through the round boat window and into the engine room. The arrow was adjusted to take the engines down without blowing the whole yacht away. They wouldn't be able to get away before SHILED was on them like white on paper.

A loud crash was the only warning before he had to dive out of the way or be crushed by the falling storage units. But just as he slid on the floor, narrowly escaping a crushing death a support beam fell straight on him. He had the sensation of being chopped in half and then there was nothing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A soft beeping sound woke him up. Clint had been in enough hospitals in his lifetime that the sound was more familiar than any else, except maybe his breathing. It was quiet otherwise, the monotone noise broken only by the soft sounds of shifting paper.

Clint wasn't concerned. There was only one person left who would wait at his bedside just waiting for a chance to rip him a new hole as soon as he woke up.

He winced internally. Right, definitely not the best wording he could have used.

"You're awake." Natasha's voice sounded. "I would say I'm surprised, but not even I can lie that well. Your first mission back and you are already supine. Next time I'm going to start a betting pool."

"Only if I get fifty percent." Clint smiled without opening his eyes. "How bad is it? I think there's more dope in my blood than in Nurse Jackie's locker."

There was a metallic shift as Natasha took his clipboard off the foot of the bed. "They had to pull you out from under a steel girder. It landed straight across your hips." She flipped the pages. "There's a lot of words that aren't going to mean anything to you, but suffice to say you've got hairline fractures across your entire pelvic bone. The doctors say it's a miracle it hadn't exploded in a thousand different directions when it splintered, so you'll be able to walk again with next to no complications but not anytime soon. You're looking at weeks of being a couch potato followed by physical therapy."

"Dammit, and I was planning to bitch at Fury how I didn't need a vacation." Clint sighed. "Think the bastard planned it?"

"Even if he did I think you exceeded his expectations." She returned the clipboard to its proper place and returned to whatever she'd been reading. Clint finally mustered the strength to open his eyes. Natasha was still in her black stealth suit, which meant she'd only just returned from a mission herself. She looked tired, but still poised, with only a few hairs out of place and a bit of rubble dust on one of her elbows so she hadn't even showered. She'd definitely been worried about him.

Of course, he wasn't going to be an asshole and point it out. "Is that an AVON catalogue?"

"Yep." She nodded without looking up from it. "There's an entire drugstore in here. Spares people the hassle of actually going to Mac and dealing with other people I guess."

"I'm guessing you're keeping it?" They weren't talking about makeup anymore.

"Sure." She glanced at him out the corner of her eye. "Some of these names are ridiculous but the colors are nice, and promise to be rich and hydrating. I'd say it's worth an order."

Clint smiled widely at her. If there was one person even more uncomfortable with emotions than him it was Natasha. She'd been taught since childhood they were merely yet another thing to manipulate, to be used against others or they would get used against you. She could fake just about anything in her sleep, but when she was truly worried she turned blank and nonchalant, but there were little things that gave her away. In this case, it was the ridiculous makeup catalogue.

"What do you think?" She turned the double page spread towards him. "Blush Nude or Frozen Rose?"

Clint gave that question all the consideration it deserved. Namely, he spent at least five minutes glancing from the spread to Natasha's skin, hair and eye color. Finally he gave his verdict.

"It'd definitely blush if I saw you nude."

She slapped him on the side of the head for that, but he didn't miss the small relieved smile on her face. A week later Clint saw her wearing new lipstick and it took him only a moment to recognize it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

True to Natasha's word, the doctors gave him what was basically cast underwear and enough Vicodin to make his liver give up and quit then pretty much told him to go be a couch potato for at least six weeks.

It wasn't the distraction he had been hoping for but at least it allowed him to sulk and lick his wounds in peace. He had already swept his apartment for bugs twice to ensure he had privacy, that nobody was monitoring him and taking notes on his mental state.

He'd already had someone in his head once, he didn't need others poking around some more.

So he pirated every season of Supernatural and spent more time on Pinterest than any sane, non-hoarding person should and lived pretty much exclusively on pizza. He was on sick leave, sue him. And it wasn't as if there was anybody around to judge him. Definitely nobody to notice that he sometimes lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling and desperately trying not to think about how Loki had wrapped his arm around his waist, how he stroked his abdomen and whispered encouragements in his ear. How much he wanted him to do it at the time, how sweet it felt.

Definitely not thinking about what exactly the pretender-god did to him.

In a way, his injury was a blessing in disguise. They'd x-rayed his crotch from every possible angle in order to determine the extent of his injuries and didn't even put up a fuss when Clint asked to see the scans. His hips looked like a cracked vase, no two ways about it, but no matter how much Clint turned and looked at it he couldn't find anything.

Maybe Loki just had a thing about sticking his fingers in others' wounds, being all metaphorical and shit. Maybe there was nothing more to it. Maybe Clint was just paranoid.

Maybe if he repeated that enough times he would start to believe it.

He ditched the pelvic sling about three weeks in. It still hurt like motherfucker to walk but it was getting too tight. Clint guessed he should probably cut down on the pizza and think about eating something healthy but dismissed it as soon as the pizza delivery boy rang the bell. He'd work it off when he was back on duty.

But it seemed the universe hated him because when he switched on the news one day about six and a half weeks in he spit his soda all over himself.

SHIELD had been revealed to have HYDRA hiding in its deepest bowels so Natasha and Steve teamed up to dig it out and air it for all the world to see. And shot down all three of Stark's newest Hellicarriers. And the legendary sniper assassin, the Winter Soldier, turned out to not only be involved but to actually be Steve's old war buddy. And SHIELD no longer existed.

 _This is so typical,_ Clint grumbled to himself as he popped yet more pills he should have been getting off of and struggled to fit into his pants, _I get injured on a stupid, boring op while they go off gallivanting and ruining our employers. Typical._

Which was actually how Clint got his first clue that Something Was Very Wrong, and the capitals were absolutely needed.

He'd been a total beanpole as a kid, able to eat just about anything without gaining weight because nothing stuck. He threw on a nice amount of muscle mass when he joined the army but even in his thirties he'd been able to fit into his pants from high school.

Now he could just barely pull his regular jeans over his ass, and actually buttoning them was a feat in and of itself. For a moment Clint forgot why the hell he was trying to pull them on in the first place and shucked them in a corner of the room and came to stand in front of his closet mirror.

He'd lost abdominal definition, that much he'd already known, but he hadn't noticed anything wrong other than his softening belly. Now, standing in front of a rarely used full length mirror he wanted to scream in horror.

He had _hips._ Like, goddamn fucking wide hips. His torso was no longer that usual straight shape, but he had actual fucking _curves,_ subtle but definitely there _._ His waist tapered off inwards and then flared out again at his hipbones. The deep V of his groin muscles was nearly nonexistent now, smoothed over instead.

He'd just barely caught himself from falling on his ass, naked except for his T-shirt. As it was his legs still gave out on him and he sat there, staring at himself in horror. What the fuck did those quacks at SHIELD do to him?! It couldn't be a fucking coincidence that he found out about the HYDRA thing on the same day this happened, right?

Then he noticed something that made his blood run cold. The way he was sitting, leaning back with his arms supporting him and his legs apart he could see something he dearly hoped he was mistaken about. The pills he was on for the broken pelvis numbed him enough that he could barely feel anything below his navel but he would have fucking noticed if he had… _that_.

With a trembling hand he reached down in between his tights, at that place Loki had shoved his knife in all those months ago and nearly cried out when he encountered wet softness. When he pulled his hand back the tips of his fingers were covered with a thin sheen of transparent fluid.

So Clint did what any normal male would do in his situation: he passed the fuck out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Exactly one year after Loki's 'augmentation' Clint found himself yet again using the tried and tested method of drowning out pain: alcohol.

He hadn’t told anyone about his little discovery, not even Natasha. God, especially not Natasha. She and the rest of the Avengers were literally the only people in the world who didn’t still look at him in suspicion and questioning in their eyes, he wasn’t going to ruin that by telling them what exactly Loki’s intentions had been. He'd gotten out of both further scans and examinations on the excuse that he felt fine, could walk properly, and they had HYDRA to hunt.

Natasha had given him a word-by-word of her conversation with the mad god on the Hellicarrier. It had taken just about every shred of willpower Clint possessed not to blanch when she recounted Loki's 'mewling quim' insult. She’d noticed he reacted, but had written it off as his general disposition towards Loki.

He got away with it only because she wasn’t totally wrong.

The day after waking up still sprawled in front of a mirror Clint showered, studiously not looking into any reflective surfaces, dressed into his last pair of fitting pants and went straight into the nearest night club.

At first it had been mostly about getting drunk, and the bar was two blocks further away. But even after weeks of inactivity he was still a reasonably attractive man. It didn’t take long for a self-assured blonde with a tight shirt and nice cleavage to approach him. She had assumed he’d been dumped and Clint was too drunk to suppress a flinch. Thankfully, she just took it as confirmation.

They exchanged a bare skeleton of conversation, upon which he found out she was looking for a good night without getting attached. Clint pondered her words over the rim of his Black Russian that was sorely lacking in Kahlua and cherries. A one night stand might be just the thing he needed, to assure himself having parts that didn’t belong on a cis-gendered male didn’t make him any less of one.

On the other hand, _she might notice._

In the end, need for reassurance won out. He knocked back his drink, slapped a couple of twenties on the counter and said, “My apartment’s right across the block.”

They walked back with their hands on each other’s asses. Her name was Lucy, she was clean and told him he didn’t need to know more than that. Clint nodded, introduced himself as Clark and started kissing her before they even made it to his door. She answered back enthusiastically.

It was only once they fell onto bed and started pulling clothes off that Clint was suddenly hit with apprehension. His dick was hard already but there was wetness where there definitely _shouldn’t be._ At least not on his end. Jesus Christ, he was getting wet like a woman! His heart just about beat out of his chest when he realized, his arms trembling. To think Loki had done _that_ to him, what he’d probably been _planning to do-_

_Don’t think about it. Don’t freak out._

Lucy noticed he’d paused in his ministration so before she could ask him what was wrong he pulled her panties off and started kissing down her thigh. Then she wasn’t very interested in talking.

He figured after a few orgasms she wouldn’t be likely to notice she wasn’t the only one slicking up. He licked and mouthed at her folds like he was eating a peach, and she was very vocal in her satisfaction. The familiar taste and feel covered in a cloud of alcohol calmed him down enough to start thinking of the whole thing as yet another one night stand, the kind he had lost track of when he was a young carnie. Or rather, not think at all.

Three orgasms later she pulled him up by his hair and shoulders and shoved a condom packet at his chest. Clint looked at her for a second, judging her flushed cheeks and bedroom eyes and decided to go for it.

It was good, a lot better than some of his other partners he’d brought home for a night. She knew what she was doing, and was more interested in clawing at his chest and shoulders than his back and ass, so Clint could focus on his actions instead of trying to thwart hers. He’d enjoyed himself.

But as they lay side by side, panting after all the exertions Clint couldn’t stop shifting his tights against each other. He fucking didn’t understand, he’d come, it was good, great even, so why the fuck did he feel like he was thirteen again, just waking up from a wet dream still hard and not having a clue what to do about it?

The difference between his early teenage years was that when he was a kid there was a rather obvious problem calling for his attention, and trial and error soon proved good at determining how to take care of said problem. Now, he was spent, and not exactly up for getting ‘up’ for at least another twenty minutes, and yet he felt like he’d been teased for the whole duration of sex only to find out it was over before he could even think about getting off.

Later he would wonder if that was what women felt like when the guy didn’t know or care what he was doing. That thought alone sent him back into his liquor stash.

Lucy left her number and a proposition to become fuck buddies the next day but he’d declined with a smile. She nodded in understanding, but left her number still. Clint didn’t call.

So that soon became his life; blowing up HYDRA facilities by day and banging his way through his neighborhood by night. Lucy had obviously told her friends that there was a hot guy who spoke fluent cunnilingus looking for one night stands in an attempt to get over his nonexistent girlfriend, so he was never short for company. Hell, his nights were so regular they had a clear order and schedule.

He’d get to the club and go straight for the bartender, a woman in her early thirties with black hair and Amy Winehouse eyeliner, and get his drinks on the house. The first time that happened he’d been confused and asked why, but the barista just laughed at him.

"Sugar, since you started to build a reputation every single girl in this half of the _city_ has been coming to my club looking for you. I already feel like I should be paying _you,_ free drinks are the least I can do for increasing my customers like this."

Clint didn’t know how to feel about that so he just knocked back his drinks and tried not to feel anything.

The girls caught on to the pattern pretty soon as well, which was actually a little scary but it did make everything easier, even if he sometimes felt like he was being used as a particularly amusing playground ride.

The pattern was this: somewhere around his third of fourth drink the girls would decide who approached him that evening. When the champion had been selected she’d come to him and strike up a conversation. There were some that blushed a little at first and spent a few minutes chatting but Clint preferred the ones that didn’t beat around the bush. He was never approached by the same girl twice, and he was honestly grateful that Lucy had apparently imparted that piece of information to the girls and the girls had chosen to respect it.

Because if you slept with someone on a regular basis they’d eventually see whatever you’re trying to hide, and Clint’s thing was a bit more of a deal-breaker than most.

Politeness out of the way, he led them back to his apartment. The girl of the night would take her pants off, Clint would take his shirt off and they'd go to town. A few of them had offered blowjobs in return but after the first three he had rather uncomfortably refused they got the hint and informed the others of their findings. Clint got the feeling there was a folder on him and his preferences somewhere making its way through the hands of just about every woman in New York.

Clint was right in assuming that after a few orgasms girls didn’t care too much where all the juice was coming from. A few had noticed some slick dripping down his tights after the sex but had assumed it was from them, and Clint’s secret was safe.

But that same feeling of frustration was repeated every. Single. _Fucking._ _Night._ He’d been going through the female population of New York in a desperate but dwindling hope of once again regaining the feeling he should have been feeling after a night of vigorous sex. But it was always the same, always that same feeling of tension and sexual frustration he didn’t dare even elevate on his own, much less ask someone else to take care of it for him.

The Avengers noticed something was wrong with him. Natasha knew of his nightly activities and never even gave a hint whether she disapproved or not. Tony had figured it out on his own, whether he knew the 'symptoms' from his own experiences or because of JARVIS, Clint didn’t particularly care, Tony Stark was probably the last person it the entire world who would judge him for his bedroom activities. Until one night he did care.

They’d been drinking, a toast for a mission well done. It was already too late to go to his club and honestly, Clint was so worn out and tired of being disappointed every single night he was thinking of quitting anyway. Stark had offered them all a sleepover in the tower and Clint had been too tired to refuse. But just as he’d been going to his floor Stark had stopped him at the elevator.

“Heya Birdbrain.” Tony came to stand next to him. “I hope you’re not going to continue without us.”

“Are you insinuating I’m becoming an alcoholic?” Though the man probably _was_ some kind of an authority at this thing. Clint had read the newspapers when Stark was twenty.

“I dunno. You tell me.” Stark narrowed his eyes at him considering. “What I can tell you that whatever you’re trying to do isn’t going to work.”

“And how would you know what I’m trying to do?”

“Well I can assume, but I’m not going to because it wouldn’t be scientific. What would be is looking at the result: you’ve been drinking and whoring around without stop for over two months. Do _you_ think it’s working?”

And that was the problem right there. It _wasn’t_ working, no matter how much Clint wanted it to. He’d had more sex in the last two months with more women than the rest of his entire life. All the ladies were nice, respectful and happy to comply with whatever he suggested, but the problem was that he was never in a million years going to suggest what might be the solution, because the solution would just send him into an even deeper panic and create an even bigger problem.

It was the perfect Catch-22.

Apparently his silence was answer enough for Tony. The genius squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “Well, experiment number one failed. The scientific thing to do would be to change the method, see it that works out better.”

“And you’re all about science, aren’t you?” Tony was probably one other person who hated magic as much as he did, and his hatred wasn’t even because of personal issues.

“And about style, don’t forget the style.” Tony patted him on the back just as the elevator finally came to their floor. “Think about it. Who knows, maybe you’ll discover knitting is the way to go.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Clint gave a smile that probably wasn’t as reassuring as he hoped it would be. But Stark didn’t push, just gave him a thumbs-up and left him to his own thoughts.

But maybe he was right. And it didn’t matter how good Clint was at self-denial, he wasn’t quite that much of a masochist to continue on his spree. So the next night he stayed at home. And the next. And the one after that until the girls probably figured he’d gotten over the presumed girlfriend.

He still showered awkwardly, still couldn’t make himself walk around his house without at least wearing boxers, something he used to do without a second thought and he still pulled a muscle every now and then when he forgot to adjust his stride. And now that he didn’t have anything to tire him out and distract him at night, he once again found himself staring at the ceiling above his bed, trying desperately not to think about the god that did this to him.

One day he came back from a cold stakeout of a potential HYDRA base, exhausted to the bone, feeling world weary and worn, just thinking about lying down on his bed and forgetting the world existed for a few hours. It was barely six in the afternoon, but he hadn't slept since yesterday. He could have gone on for longer if he'd absolutely had to, but now that he didn't gravity was looking like a more formidable opponent by the second.

When he finally flopped onto his bed, only just taking the bulletproof vest and boots, he was out the moment his head hit the pillow. But then the dreams started.

_He was back in the makeshift office, his Master ordering him to take off his pants. But this time he didn't stop Clint when he took off all of his clothes. He stood bare before the god, who looked at him appraisingly. He was already ravishing Clint with his eyes, stalking closer until they were chest to chest. Loki took his chin in his hand, tilted it to a preferable angle and kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue into Clint's mouth._

_That familiar ecstasy of being close to his Lord, his Master, was back. Loki's other arm snaked around his back, tracing the curve of Clint's spine with tantalizing slowness, and finally reaching the swell of his buttocks. His tongue was still working wonders, making the archer think he could come from just the feel of it. But then Loki's other hand lowered in between them, and he pressed his thumb into Clint's hipbone, making him gasp into his Lord's mouth._

_"Mmm," Loki stopped his ministrations for a moment to look down, "the seeds have taken well." He murmured into Clint's collarbone. "I actually didn't expect it to form so soon."_

_Clint had no idea what he was talking about for a second but then he felt the now familiar trickle of fluid slowly dripping down his thigh. He felt his cheeks flush red and tried to subtly press his tights together but Loki would have none of it._

_"There is no need to hide from me." Loki said in between peppering the archer's neck with kisses that sent shivers down his spine. "Let me feel you."_

_And how could Clint possibly refuse? As Loki slid his fingers in between his legs to lightly massage the inside of his thigh Clint felt himself relax and lean more of his weight into the arms of the god. Loki hummed in between his kisses which were slowly progressing into nibbles._

_And then those long, long fingers were touching him_ there. _Clint could only gasp and_ _grab onto Loki's shoulders in hope of regaining some balance. He could feel himself quivering like a newborn fawn but he couldn't find the capacity to care. The god's fingers by themselves felt like the best drug he had ever tasted, but when he started dragging them across the hypersensitive flesh, massaging gently in just the right spots they felt divine. Literally._

_Clint was panting, holding onto Loki's clothed shoulders for dear life, grateful for the hand still around his back because his legs were on the brink of giving out. He didn't even realize he'd been thrusting his hips in small jerks against Loki's thigh, literally humping his leg. But it produced the most wonderful friction against his dick, mingling with the lightning of pleasure Loki's hand was producing, and Clint could feel himself losing his mind but he didn't care. He was in his God's arms, feeling the deepest ecstasy a human brain could experience. It was absolutely perfect._

_He could feel IT building deep in his lower belly, and now he had his arms wrapped around the leather clad shoulders for dear life, pants and whimpers falling from his mouth into Loki's collar. He was so close, he was almost there, oh God-_

_"Good boy. " Loki whispered right into his ear. "My Hawk…"_

And Clint shot up in his bed, flushed and panting, his boxers wetter than ever before and his dick as hard as a rock. Before he could stop himself he palmed his raging hard-on, knowing that if he could just stroke it right a few times he would come harder than ever before, and he wanted to reach down further and rub against the place his God's fingers had been-

_Loki's fingers._

Abruptly all that pleasure turned to sickness. Clint darted off the bed like a bullet and straight into his shower, not giving a single fuck he was still mostly clothed. He turned the shower to the coldest setting it could manage and turned it on full blast.

The ice cold water shocked his mind back into some semblance of order. Clint gasped and braced his hands against the wall, letting the water cascade down his back. He shivered as he felt his arousal wane with the sudden shock to his body.

 _What the ever-loving fuck was that?!,_ Clint screamed in his mind. _Why the Hell would you dream something like that?_

But he knew damn well why. It was the same reason he had been so eager to serve, and so terrified what would happen if he saw Loki again. The damn staff had messed with his head, had shifted so many paradigms that Clint could barely recognize it as his own. That rock solid part of his brain had been tilted for so long it could never fully go back to the straight foundation it once was.

And it terrified Clint more than he thought possible, knowing that the needle of his mental compass was still shifted just a degree in Loki's direction.

After a while he started shivering from the cold so he turned off the shower and stepped out, dripping water everywhere. He peeled the soaked clothes off and dumped them back in the tub. As he carefully wiped the area in between his legs with a towel he got the most desperate urge to cry. To simply curl up under his thickest comforter, hiding away from the world and cry himself a river. Or maybe sob and scream and trash his entire place, _anything_ to release this fucking feeling of helplessness, of Loki's influence looking over his head like a bad omen.

But he was a _man,_ no matter what Loki had done to him. He quashed his feelings with ruthlessness, towel-dried his hair and put on some clothes and went out.

This was how he found himself here, on that fatefully morbid anniversary, at the bar downing Jägermeister at one in the morning like it was his salvation on God's green Earth. He wasn't looking for company, which was why he'd taken the trouble to walk to the bar instead of going to the club and risking a run-in with one of his fangirls.

The bartender, a bear of a man with bald head and ginger beard, took one look at the credit card Clint slapped on the table top and didn't even ask what he wanted, just slid glass after glass towards him, each containing more alcohol than the last. Clint just kept drinking, but his tolerance had apparently risen in the last two months of his whoring spree, as Tony called it, because he wasn't getting any less wound up. He sighed in frustration, the feeling of wanting to both cry and smash returning. If this was how Bruce felt during a Hulkout Clint had a newfound understanding for the man.

He needed a fucking outlet, needed to shoot something, he needed something stronger than alcohol, he needed-

"My, my," A voice suddenly sounded from his left, "whatever did that glass do to you that you wish to strangle it so much?"

Clint hadn't even realized he was squeezing the glass hard enough that if he had kept it up for a few more seconds it would have probably shattered in his palm. He released it with far greater effort than should have been needed and turned to look at the newcomer.

The first thing that registered in Clint's brain was that the guy was _tall._ 6'4'' at least, dressed in a suit with the tie gone and the last few buttons undone. When Clint looked up he saw the face of a handsome middle-aged man, with dark hair brushed back the way Tony used to favor and earthly green eyes, speckled with flecks of brown. The corners of his mouth twinkled in mild amusement but his pale forehead creased with worry.

Guy didn't exactly look like he belonged in a bar at one in the morning, even though it was Friday night. Or Saturday morning, technically. But hey, who was Clint to judge?

The hot stranger pulled out a stool next to him and leaned his elbow on the counter. "Whisky on the rocks please." He asked with a deep, smooth voice and a slight British accent. Clint absolutely refused to be reminded of he-who-must-not-be-named.

"May I ask what troubles you so much that you felt the need to take it out on an innocent piece of glass?"

Clint almost snorted. Oh yeah, he was British alright. Suddenly all the similarity to the man Clint was trying to escape from seemed ridiculous. "Had a god in my brain, tried to flush him out. Didn't work." Maybe if he thought Clint was crazy he would leave him alone.

But the guy just chuckled and took a sip of his drink. "Most people spend their entire lives looking for God, and here you are trying to drown out his voice. An unfair state of affairs, don't you think?"

"Yeah well, I can tell ya it's nowhere near what it's cracked up to be." Clint said and knocked back yet another shot. Even the bartender was frowning at the amount of glasses in front of him now. It was probably time to start on the water now but when had Clint ever done what he was supposed to?

"Have you tried any methods that don't involve pickling your internal organs?" The question was rather pointed but the tone revealed nothing but mild curiosity. Clint was too drunk to care either way.

"Tried sex too. Didn't work either."

"Then you've been doing it wrong." The guy snorted, prompting Clint to laugh a little breathlessly. Huh, the table was starting to tilt. The owner ought to fix that.

"You offering to demonstrate?" The words were out of Clint's mouth before he could stop them. He wanted to bang his head against the table but it wouldn't keep still long enough. There went his big mouth getting in the way of what was probably the nicest bit of conversation Clint had had in at least a week, and wasn't that just a sad state of affairs?

"Well if you start drinking water I might." The answer surprised him enough to whirl his head around. That turned out to be a colossally bad idea because he managed to unbalance himself to the point where he almost fell off the stool. Actually would have, it the hot stranger didn't have such quick reflexes and caught him before he tilted past the point of no return.

"Yes, I think water is definitely in order." He said as he straightened Clint back up. As if he'd just been waiting for the opportunity the bartender collected Clint's myriad glasses and put a beer keg filled to the brim with water in front of him. Clint would have glared at him if only the Redbeard-wannabe would stop duplicating. He wasn't sure which one to glare at.

The stranger's hand was on his back, likely to catch him if he tipped over again, but it felt nice. Clint had almost forgotten what pleasant touch without intent felt like. He hadn't exactly been cuddly with his one night stands, partly because it wasn't really proper etiquette for these things but mostly because of paranoia. Cuddling required touch, and touching without sex as a distraction was dangerous.

The stranger was now rubbing his back in small circles, encouraging him to drink more of the water from the beer keg. Clint just managed to down it whole and set it down with a heavy 'thunk'. "What's yer name?" That seemed like a polite question to ask.

"Thomas, though most people call me Tom. Yours?"

"Clint." Oops, he was supposed to say Clark. Oh well, at least the guy didn't look like a HYDRA agent. 'Sides, he was British, they hated Germans. Or was that French? Wait, he _was_ British, right?

"You a Brit?" Shit, that wasn't supposed to come out like that.

Luckily, Tom seemed to be near impossible to offend. He simply raised an eyebrow at Clint and gestured for the bartender to pour him another keg of water again. "Indeed, I'm from Greenwich. I'm in New York on business and here over the weekend. I'll be back on Monday."

Well shit, so either Clint jumped his bones now or he wouldn't get another chance. He didn't usually go for guys, though he was no stranger to gay sex. He was a carnie, and in that profession it was just about impossible to stay a virgin of any kind. But girls had clearly not worked out for him, and like Tony said: when one experiment fails try another. Or something. Whatever.

There was a voice in the back of his mind trying to break through the haze of alcohol to tell him sleeping with a guy was an even more colossally big mistake than getting this drunk and whirling on a bar stool, but Clint took one look at the guy, decided he was harmless and told the voice to shut up. Plus he got Clint out of his funk, if only temporarily, maybe he could keep him out of it for a night.

Wait, what was the funk again?

Before he could remember why climbing the guy like a particularly nice British tree was a Very Bad Idea another beer keg with water in it (water keg? Why did that sound dirty?) was thrust into his hands. Clint glared at Tom but he just smiled mildly at him. Suddenly he got an idea. "If I drink it does your offer still stand?"

Again with the eyebrow. "Only if you drink it whole and eat a bit of something."

Clint frowned at the water keg (heh), weighting pros and cons. Finally he tossed back the entire glass like he was being paid to do it, Tom's hand on his back again to make sure he didn't tip over and spill it all over himself. He knew he'd be pissing like a racehorse when it all got down to his kidneys but hey, bathrooms were a thing! So long as they didn't have full length mirrors.

Wait, why was he avoiding mirrors now?

He didn't manage to get an answer to that question either because there was suddenly a polished yellow apple thrust under his nose. Clint followed the hand holding the apple to Tom's expectant face and pouted. He could have sworn Redbeard the Bartender was laughing at him, but at least now he stopped duplicating so Clint could glare at him properly.

Still, a deal was a deal. Clint accepted the apple and took a large bite of it. Then he realized he must have been a whole lot hungrier than he thought he was because that little apple tasted far better than it had any right to.

Tom seemed to have the same idea. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Had a san'wich." Clint said around his bite. As a born country boy he ate all of it, everything except the stem. 'Sides, it was a really good apple. Kinda' familiar too. Probably some imported overpriced sort Tony was likely to have bought.

"That's not exactly what I asked." Tom said but Clint couldn't for the life of him remember the question. "Can you stand on your own?"

Clint tried to. He could stand up straight now, after all that water, but the floor was still a little tilty. Walking was possible at least, though walking in a straight line was going to be tricky.

"Think you can get him home?" Redbeard the Bartender asked Tom. He shrugged.

"I can try. Hopefully he remembers his address, or he has a phone with it."

"Good luck then, your whisky's on the house. Not every day you see decent people around here."

"Thank you, that's gracious of you."

"I'm right here." Clint grumbled.

"Of course. Here." Tom took his arm and threw it around his shoulders, then wrapped his other arm around Clint's waist. "Come now, time to go."

As determined as Clint was to walk on his own he had to admit leaning on Tom was a lot better. He let his head loll on the taller man's shoulder, inhaling the subtle scent of his cologne. Somehow it reminded Clint of the telltale way the air smelled right before it snowed, that sharp tang in the atmosphere that so many kids loved for what it would bring.

Clint wasn't sure where they were going but he only realized they weren't going back to his apartment when they entered what looked like a hotel lobby. The receptionist looked at them a bit oddly, and Clint belatedly realized that they looked like a couple trying to cuddle while walking. Tom steered him towards the elevator and pushed the button for what was probably his floor.

Clint blinked and tried shaking his head a little. Still a little woozy but his head was clearing.

"Have you sobered up some?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, my head feels clearer." Clint smiled sheepishly. "Sorry I made such a fool of myself, I'm usually not that desperate. It's just… It's been a bad day."

Tom nodded in understanding. "We all have those sometimes."

Clint realized he still hadn't moved his arm from around the guy's shoulders, and Tom hadn't moved his arm from around Clint's waist either. "So… We still on for tonight?"

It was a bit of a long shot. Tom obviously found him attractive but wasn't going to sleep with him unless Clint was sober enough to vocally consent, which was actually really decent of the guy.

Tom looked him over and Clint did his best to stand straight and appear sober enough for his tastes. He apparently passed muster because Tom smiled and tilted his head down (the guy was almost a head taller than him) to kiss Clint on the lips.

Now that he was on familiar territory Clint felt a lot more self-assured. He reached up to wrap his arms around Tom's neck, almost standing on his toes to do it. Tom in turn ran his hands down Clint's sides, his motions more a reassuring rub than the groping Clint expected. It might have been because they were still in the elevator. Their kiss was open mouthed, but slow and gentle. Tom eased the tension Clint didn't even know he had, so he just pressed himself closer to the guy's front and ground his hips against Tom's lightly.

They finally got to his floor just as they parted for air. Clint was already panting slightly but Tom didn't seem to have a hair out of place. Clint couldn't wait to mess him up.

Tom swiped the hotel room keycard at the electronic reader and the doors opened to reveal a rather nice suite with a freshly made king sized bed. Clint went towards it, intending to do a little strip show on the way. But evidently Tom had other ideas because he took Clint by the arm and turned him around so they were chest to chest, then reached down under his tights _and fucking lifted him in one move_. Clint wrapped his legs around the guy's waist on instinct then grabbed his hair and started kissing him earnestly as Tom walked them to the bed. Damn, the Brit was turning out to be surprisingly hot in a lot of ways.

The covers thrown back, Clint was deposited on the mattress and stripped of his shirt in one smooth move. Tom was still standing so that left Clint in the perfect position to unbuckle the guy's belt and pull down his pants. Without a second thought he took his cock in his hand and gave it a few rapid strokes, watching it harden to full mast in his palm.

Then he leaned forward and swallowed it in one go.

Clint might have been a bit out of practice when it came to sucking cock but he'd gotten a lot of practice with his mouth in the last two months. Shape aside, there wasn't much difference in application. And since Tom fisted his hands in Clint's hair and bent over him, panting slightly, he figured he was at least doing okay.

Tom suddenly pulled away and pushed him backwards on the bed, falling on top of him a second later. He attacked Clint's chest with his lips and teeth, and Clint didn't remember his nipples feeling so _sensitive,_ but fuck if it wasn't awesome. Clint clawed at Tom's shoulders and arched his back, moaning for more, more heat, more pressure, more _everything._ By God, the guy knew what he was doing.

He'd just gotten Clint's pants off and was hitching his legs over his pale shoulders when Tom paused for a second, an opened condom already in between his fingers. "Anal or vaginal?"

Clint felt like he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water, all haze of alcohol and arousal suddenly lifting. "Huh?"

"Do you prefer anal or vaginal sex?" His bed partner clarified, hand cupping Clint's ass and his fingers dangerously close to _there._ "I'm fine with either, but I figured it would be extremely poor etiquette not to ask."

Clint felt like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. He saw. _He saw!_ That little voice in the back of Clint's head that had been warning him against the whole thing suddenly screamed in panic. He'd been compromised, Tom found out, the Avengers were going to find out, find out what Loki did to him and _kick him off the team!!!_

He didn't even realize he was hyperventilating until he found Tom's hands on both sides of his head. "Shh, breathe with me. Slowly. Breathe." Clint desperately clutched at the other's forearms, trying to do as he said. His breathing slowed progressively and he started calming down, Tom constantly whispering assurances into his ear.

Of course, now that Clint was calm he wanted nothing more that for ground to swallow him whole. How the fuck could he have been so careless?! Months of successfully keeping his secret had gone down the drain in one superb move because he didn't know how to hold his liquor. Jesus, what was Tom thinking-

"Are you alright now?" Clint just barely dared to peek out from under his eyelashes to look at his would-be-bed-partner's worried face. Strangely enough Tom didn't seem disgusted or even alarmed, at least not about Clint's extra _parts._ God, he still couldn't even bring himself to say it in his head, how the fuck did he think this was a good idea?!

"We don't have to do anything, but please tell me you are alright." Tom repeated gently, stroking his thumbs along the corners of Clint's jaw. The archer suddenly wanted to cry _again._ He'd literally landed the nicest and most understanding guy in the fucking world, who didn't even blink when he saw what was in between Clint's legs and then calmed him down when Clint freaked out about it, and he'd fucked everything up.

"Fine, just-" His voice just barely didn't break. "Haven't really- With a guy- Well, not there, and- I-"

"Shhh," suddenly Tom let go of his face to hug him. Really hug him, wrap his arms around him and hold him, "You thought I would react badly, I understand. But there is nothing to be ashamed of, not with me."

And what was Clint supposed to do other than wrap his arms around Tom as well? He clutched at the taller man like he was a lifeline and Clint was drowning in the arctic sea. The tears finally flowed without his permission, like they'd been waiting to spring free for a long time now and Clint had gotten too weak to hold them back. Tom settled to sit cross-legged with Clint still on his lap, rubbing his back and holding him tight as Clint sobbed in his arms and against his shoulder.

They were still naked, with Clint's ass against Tom's dick and legs wrapped around his waist but sex was just about the last thing on either of their minds. Clint couldn't stop crying, not now that he'd begun. All that shame, all that fear and anxiety were pouring out of his eyes and there was no stopping the flood now that the dam had broken. Tom just held him, sometimes whispering softly in his ear to calm him down when he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

God only knew how long they were like that. But the floodgates did have to run dry at one point, and when they finally did Clint was so exhausted he couldn't move if he had wanted to. Not counting the dream – _nightmare –_ about Loki he hadn't slept in at least 48 hours, and the exhaustion, hunger, alcohol and emotions finally took their final toll.

He didn't even feel it when Tom gently extracted him and laid him down, then tucked him under the comforter. Didn't feel it when he sat down next to Clint and ran his fingers through his blond hair and looked at him like he was watching his very soul.

And he certainly didn't see 'Tom' melt away in green light, leaving behind a much more frightening visage.


End file.
